Flyover Land

When I grew up there, it was called Midwest —
Where the cow goes “moo” and the sun shines best.
Flyover Land.

And at ten years old, I was cursed and blessed
With a six-string Don Quixote quest,
In Flyover Land.

Chorus:
Flyover Land is the land that we’re from.
We built up a sound and nobody come,
I said, Hey! Listen!
Flyover Land is the land that we love.
It smells like a barn and it fits like a glove.
And we’re here in the middle of America.

I spent all of my fifteen minutes of fame
On a three piece suit, who could feel no shame.
Flyover Land.

So we load up the truck for another gig,
Living deep inside of the groove that we dig
In Flyover Land.

He said, “This is you, and here’s the game,
But you can’t get there unless you hop a plane
From Flyover Land.”

repeat chorus

And we dream about fame and we dream it up big —
We tell everybody we know Butch Vig
In Flyover Land.

repeat chorus

Well I ain’t gonna whine like a suffering Brit
And I ain’t gonna throw any big, flannel fit.
I’m a Flyover Man.

And this song might not be a national hit,
Or a regional hit, but I don’t give a shit.
We’re a Flyover Band.

repeat chorus

God bless America.

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